Malayan Spymaster

by Boris Hembry

  I presented the python’s skin to Gyllenskold’s wife, and she hung it up on two sides of their bungalow dining room. I assume they took it home with them when they retired, so it could well still be in Zurich. Even if their descendants had disposed of it, it could be in a natural history museum. In retrospect, I am deeply sorry that this magnificent specimen of nature was slaughtered just for a keepsake, like so many elephant, tiger and countless other magnificent creatures.

  I had been on the estate for about six months when the conductor informed me that a tiger spoor had been seen near the boundary with the jungle. Having confirmed this I sent a message to Gyllenskold who sent over a tiger trap. This was a most fearsome-looking apparatus, made of iron and shaped like a shark’s jaws. It must have weighed two hundredweight. We bought an old goat and tethered it near the trap. The following morning a coolie came running to my bungalow to tell me that the goat was dead and that the tiger was caught in the trap.

  Grabbing my rifle and collecting some tappers on the way, I arrived at the spot only to find that both the tiger and the trap had gone. The poor animal had pulled the trap clear of the ground, despite its weight and firm anchoring, not to mention the agony that he must have been in, and dragged it off into the jungle, where I could hear him grunting and snarling, about 20 yards in. I hesitated what to do. I had never seen a tiger before, certainly not a wounded one. And I was not a good shot. After a little while, whilst waiting for Gyllenskold to arrive, the noises stopped, so with some of the braver coolies, armed only with their tapping knives, we went into the undergrowth. There, amongst much gore and blood, we found the trap with the tiger’s front paw in the jaws. The poor brute had either gnawed through its own leg, or had writhed sufficiently for the trap to have severed through the joint. There was nothing we could do. It would obviously soon die, and in great pain.

  I have always made it a point when managing people, of whatever nationality, never to ask them to do something that I could not do myself. I was therefore determined to become a first-class tapper. So, much to the amusement of the coolies, I learnt the necessary skills and continued to keep my hand in until I took over Ulu Remis palm oil estate in 1951.

  I used to study the daily tapping records and when I came across a task yielding less than the average for the area I would go out and see the tapper concerned at his work. If I thought he was not getting the best out of the trees I would instruct him to go ahead, clean the latex cups and remove the previous day’s scrap. I would then follow behind and tap the trees. The tapper would then collect the latex and we would weigh the results of my efforts. More often than not I was able to improve on his yield, and so both increase the overall production, even if only marginally, and enhance my ‘face’ as a manager.

  Should it not be convenient to accompany the tappers in the morning I would go out on my own in the afternoon. On one particular afternoon I was checking the bark consumption over the previous month when I heard from behind lots of female giggling. I turned and saw about half a dozen teenage Javanese girls cavorting about and generally playing the fool. They suddenly lifted their sarongs above their waist, danced a little jig, then turned and ran away still laughing, coffee-coloured bottoms swaying as they ran. It certainly was a merry sight, but not conducive to the peace of mind of a young bachelor trying to live a celibate life. It was fairly common for bachelors to take ‘housekeepers’ into their bungalows. On balance I think this was a good idea, because it not only ensured that random promiscuity was reduced, but also that the girl was well looked after. This was, of course, a lot more common in Sumatra, and I suppose the rest of the Dutch East Indies, than in Malaya.

  I have often wondered whether the girls had the idea that it would be a good thing for the young tuan to adopt the ways of the East and were advertising their charms, or whether it was just girlish high spirits. Nowadays, I suppose, it would be called ‘prick teasing’.

  Sometime in November 1931 fresh tiger spoor was seen again within the estate boundary, close to the jungle. Gyllenskold was visiting my division on that day so we both went to inspect these new foot marks. Judging by their size the tiger was a large one. Coolies told us that they had heard a tiger near their lines and in the vicinity of the padang where their goats and cattle were tethered. If this were so, it would indicate that it was getting on in years and after easy prey. And that it could become dangerous, possibly man eating. We decided to tether an old cow nearby and build a platform in a tree overlooking it. Gyllenskold and I would then sit up there and wait for the tiger to return, as we were certain it would.

  At about 6.30 pm, armed with rifles, torches and flasks of Bols gin, we climbed the ladder to our platform. It was uncanny being within 20 yards of the jungle, hardly daring to breath, and almost deafened by the cacophony of the tropical night orchestra, unmercifully attacked by mosquitoes. After a couple of hours, when we had almost given up, Gyllenskold suddenly gripped my arm and pointed to a spot by the jungle edge. Then I heard the muffled pad and heavy breathing. Then silence. Except that the poor cow had obviously sensed something and was trying desperately to escape, mooing in distress. Then it was all over. We heard a rush, a snarl, a brief cry of pain from the cow, and then the sound of ripping flesh.

  At this point Gyllenskold told me to shine my torch. I focused it on the largest tiger I had ever seen, not that I had ever seen a wild one before. For a split second it stared back at us with large, unblinking yellow eyes and then leaped back into the jungle and vanished. The leap was astonishing, every bit of 30 yards.

  The chances of the animal returning that night were minimal. However, discretion being the better part of valour, we waited another hour before risking climbing down from our platform and returning to my bungalow.

  The next night we repeated the operation. Only this time we tied the torch to the tree, focusing its beam on the remains of the dead cow. We went through the same couple of hours of expectancy, mosquito attacks and, this time, the dreadful smell of the putrefying cattle carcass. Then we heard bones being scrunched. We had not hear the tiger’s approach. Of course, we could not be certain that it was the tiger. Gyllenskold raised his rifle, as did I but leaving a hand free to turn on the torch. On Gyllenskold’s order I pressed the switch. The beam settled on the tiger. He looked up at us again with those large yellow eyes. Gyllenskold and I fired together. The beast made no sound, but slowly collapsed on to its side, and after a moment or so stopped all movement. After ten minutes we judged that it was dead, so we warily got down and walked over to inspect our kill.

  It was a beautiful beast, but, as we had suspected, old. Quite literally long in the tooth. About a dozen coolies, hearing the shooting, turned up, cut down some poles, and carried the tiger back to the lines where we could examine it more closely. It was then that I noticed that its right front paw was missing, severed at the joint. Against the usual laws of nature this tiger had survived its previous ordeal at the hands of man and, even more surprising, had returned to the same place where it had suffered so much torture before.

  Having no camera, we were unable to record our kill for posterity. It was skinned and cleaned without delay, to adorn the manager’s wall as another trophy. But I remained struck by the sheer beauty and the courage of this magnificent beast, and, thinking also back to the python, I shed a tear for these animals and resolved never to kill any of them again, except in self-defence or, if absolutely necessary, for the pot.

  We were to smell tiger on several occasions both at Waterloo and Kamuning estates, and to see their pug marks, but I would not permit their shooting. Luckily none caused any problems.

  During the seven months I was in Johore I was fortunate to avoid going down with malaria. My luck was not to continue. One day, in the middle of August 1931, I began to feel very queer. I had no thermometer but I knew I had a high temperature. I became increasingly ill, and towards evening I became aware that Gyllenskold was bending over me – I was to learn later that Ah Fong, recognising the symptoms, had sen
t for him. The next thing I remembered was waking up in hospital. Apparently I had been unconscious for 12 hours, including during the journey in to Langsa in Gyllenskold’s car.

  The doctor told me that I had been very ill with malaria but that I would now improve, the fever having broken. The Eurasian nurse instructed me to turn over on to my side, and I could not understand why even when she told me that she wanted to take my temperature. This was when I learned that in most European Continental countries temperatures were not taken with thermometers placed under the tongue as in Britain as, apparently, it was considered to be more accurate to take it from the rectum. I thought this most undignified, but was not up to arguing. I was in hospital for about 10 days before I was well enough to return to the Estate.

  I left the estate only twice in the 12 months that I was there, my visit to hospital being one of them. The other time was when I accompanied Gyllenskold and his wife on a day trip to Medan. I forget the exact purpose of the 300-mile round trip, but I remember having a large rijsttafel – which became a firm favourite of mine – for lunch at the De Boer Hotel.

  The day of 26 September 1931 was an occasion for double celebration – my own 21st birthday, and my engagement to Jean Cuthbertson. The Gyllenskolds joined me for a special dinner prepared by Ah Fong, helped by a large hamper sent out from England by Jean’s parents, I think from the Army & Navy Stores in Victoria Street. They specialised in such things, especially for the Services, at that time stationed throughout the Empire. We washed it all down with at least two bottles of Veuve Clicquot. Jean’s father knew a diamond merchant in Hatton Garden, and I had sent money home to her to buy an engagement ring from him. Unfortunately it was stolen by the Chinese boy of a friend in KL in 1937 and not recovered, and although by then I could afford a very much more expensive replacement, Jean never considered it to be other than a nice diamond ring.

  My time at Gajah Muntah was getting short. The Depression was really biting, and I was worried that I might be made redundant, even though I knew that Barton and Gyllenskold had sent in good reports of me. European staff were being axed and labour forces cut. Only high-yielding trees were tapped in order to lower the cost of production. Camps were established for planters who had been axed but unwilling to return to Europe, the main one being at Port Dickson, on the coast in Negri Sembilan. The unfortunate planter was provided with bed and board and a government handout of $ 10 a month. There were, of course, advantages in staying in Malaya. The climate, the friendly atmosphere, the avoidance of the drudgery and heartbreak of looking for a job in an England with unemployment of over 3,000,000 and, most important of all, the fact that one was on the spot if and when the world economy took a turn for the better and rubber was in demand again.

  I was lucky. The London secretaries decided that I would be more useful to the Group on Sungei Gettah Estate, near Sungei Patani, in Kedah. I suspect both that Ernest Ridsdell had some influence on this decision and also that, because of my young age, the company could get a reasonably competent unmarried assistant more cheaply than a married one.

  In addition to achieving some competence in my chosen profession, I had become fluent in both Malay and Tamil during my first 18 months out East, had adapted myself to the way of life, and had become quite a good games player. In short, I had gained confidence.

  One day in December 1931 the Gyllenskolds drove me down to Langsa where I embarked on a small Straits Steamship Company vessel bound for Penang. These ships were only 800–1000 tonners, mainly cargo carrying, but they had a few first-class cabins which were very comfortable. I treated the Gyllenskolds to lunch and we said our fond farewells.

  So ended my spell in Sumatra, a very lonely and isolated outpost of the Empire, albeit Dutch rather than British. After the initial loneliness I had become very attached to the beauty of my surroundings, the people, the utter peace, the wildlife and, above all, to the Gyllenskolds. All of which, on reflection, had enabled me to concentrate on learning my job, the languages, the modus vivendi of the peoples native to South East Asia, to an extent that I might not have been able to do in the less isolated estates on the Malayan mainland.

  Kedah Days (January 1933 – April 1934)

  The sea voyage from Langsa to Penang took just under 18 hours, and we anchored in the roads shortly before breakfast. I went ashore and made my way to McAuliffe, Davis & Hope’s office where I renewed my acquaintance with Jock Reid. After a chat about things in general, including the price of rubber, the Kedah rugger team, my time in Atjeh and, I was gratified to learn, the good reports he had received from Gyllenskold about me, I was told to report back at the office at noon when Cecil Tuke, the manager of Sungei Gettah Estate, would be calling to collect me and to take me back to the estate. In the interval I went around to the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank and opened an account with about $300, my savings from my salary in Sumatra. This was considered quite a lot of money in those days, but high living was to reduce this little nest egg fairly rapidly.

  As a rule my first impressions are fairly fallible, but in this case they proved to be correct. Tuke was thickset, very reserved and, to me, a dislikable man. As I got to know him better my liking for him did not improve. He had no charm. He was secretive, and ungenerous in money affairs – nowadays we would call it tight fisted. For instance, although he was getting at least double my salary, whenever he invited me to accompany him to the cinema I had to pay both for my ticket and my dinner. The dinners were invariably at the rather dreary Station Hotel rather than at the more glamorous Runnymede, or even at the Penang Club where he was a member. And I am sure that it was not done in the interests of my pocket. He was a non-smoker and teetotal. He did, however, like cricket, which was something in his favour.

  Tuke suggested that we should take the funicular up to Penang Peak where we could have lunch. This must be one of the most spectacular views in the whole of Malaya. Especially for someone whose horizon is usually limited to rows of closely spaced rubber trees. Georgetown was spread out beneath us with all the landmarks that were to become so familiar. The roads and straits full of shipping, including on that day a large German two-funnelled liner, Bukit Mertajam, Kedah Peak and the mountains behind. Penang Peak was a holiday centre, a cool hill station to escape the heat of the mainland. Some tuans besar were lucky enough to live up there and commuted to their offices in Georgetown. Their syce would be waiting for them at the funicular station at the bottom with their car.

  Francis Light, who was born and brought up in the tiny Suffolk village of Dallinghoo, founded Penang towards the end of the 18th century, when employed by the East India Company. Despite a marked expansion of trade with China there were as yet no port facilities under British control between India and China. Malacca, the only port on the west coast of the Malay Peninsula, was Dutch, they having captured it from the Portuguese. The East India Company decided, therefore, that Penang would be a convenient staging post. John Company had also decided to try to obtain a slice of the Atjeh spice trade; at that time Atjeh was the world’s leading supplier of pepper.

  In the meantime Light, who was based at Madras, had formed a friendship with the Sultan of Kedah. For some years Kedah had been at war with Selangor and the Sultan had appealed to the East India Company for military assistance, and, as part of the bargain, had offered to lease Penang to the East India Company. The treaty was concluded in 1786, and Francis Light became the first governor of Penang, and was to remain so until his death in 1794. He is buried in the churchyard in Georgetown. Incidentally, his son founded the city of Adelaide in Australia.

  We crossed over to Butterworth on the mainland by ferry, a journey of about 20 minutes. These ferries were very old even in the 1930s, sideloading and coal fired. At Butterworth I was delighted to see a large Singapore Cold Storage depot, so let Ah Fong loose to buy the basic necessities for my new bungalow. There was also a small bar. Over the next 25 years I was to call in at Perry’s Bar for ‘satu empat jalan’, one for the road, many, many times (see Glossar
y).

  The road from Butterworth to Sungei Patani headed northwards, through some of the most attractive scenery in Malaya. As far as the eye could see there were padi fields, dotted with little islands of habitation, usually the traditional Malay wooden house on stilts, with an atap roof, surrounded by fruit trees such as durian, mangosteen, lime and coconut. There would be chickens scratching around in the earth underneath the house and a goat or two tethered nearby. I understand that one can see the same scene 50 years later, but each little house now has electricity, and a large television aerial on the roof. There is no closed season for padi planting, so one would always see the farmer, knee deep in the water, behind his buffalo and plough, with padi plants grasped in his hand which he would plant by plunging them into the mud. And the ever-present central Malayan mountain range in the background, covered with rain clouds.

  The padi fields continued into Kedah when, somewhere near the village of Sungei Pasir, they gave way to the regimented rows of rubber trees of, mainly, European-owned plantations. The road ran through Sungei Patani, then a small town which housed the Kedah administration headquarters, the Sungei Patani Club, a golf course, law courts and dozens of small shops selling everything imaginable, owned usually by Chinese, although occasionally by Indians. Like all shops in the East, these would be open-fronted onto a covered pavement, separated from the road by a deep monsoon drain.

  Sungei Gettah Estate lay a further 10 miles or so beyond Sungei Patani. One turned off the main highway on to a laterite road for about five miles. It was gloomy, with large, mature rubber trees spreading their branches right over the road, and in dry weather the red dust penetrated everywhere. There were three large European-owned estates along this road before it petered out into the jungle. The first was Sungei Gettah, then Bukit Lembu, and finally Sungkap Para.